


Waking Up

by laeglass



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: M/M, Not Beta Read, a little something, no plot in sight, q is grouchy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-28
Updated: 2013-08-28
Packaged: 2017-12-24 22:45:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/945546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laeglass/pseuds/laeglass
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Q is not a morning person. Like, at all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Waking Up

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know anyone in the fandom so this is sadly not beta-read. My first time posting 00Q (yay).

Q is not a morning person.

Like, at all.

He communicates with monosyllables when asked, and with grunts when physically prodded, but his coding is forever flawless, no matter the time, or place, or lack or abundance of tea (although he does merit most of his successes to a properly brewed cup of Earl Grey; Bond thinks it’s placebo effect in full swing, but you don’t fix what isn’t broken, etc etc, and he has learned to make a decent cup).

Bond has learned to dea with his boffin.

Q’s brushing his teeth in the bathroom sink, his hair once again looking like it has an built-in wind machine, sans glasses, in his white briefs that Bond absolutely refuses to consider sexy (but who is he kidding?) when he’s ambushed. Bond comes behind him and rests his chin on Q’s shoulder, and his hands on Q’s skinny hips, meeting his partner’s eyes in the mirror although he knows he is just a blur to Q without his specs.

"You don’t need to stare," Q says crossly after it becomes obvious that Bond is content with just looking at him. "I know I’m not a GQ model."

"No," Bond agrees. "You’re better."

His hands skim down the sides, feeling Q’s ribs, smiling a little when Q’s breath hitches and his skin breaks out in goose bumps. The lack of curves is astounding and something his mind is catching up on only now, but the body he’s caressing is no less arousing for it - his brain just needs to rewire itself. He raises his eyes again and although he knows that Q still can’t see his face properly, he can make out Q’s expression just fine. Q looks grumpy and unimpressed - he hates it when he’s dragged out of his mood - but there’s a glint to his eyes that says that if Bond doesn’t finish what he started he’ll never get approved for another credit card in his life.

Q makes an indistinct noise when he is pushed against the sink, the tops of his thighs coming in contact with the cool surface, and then sucks in a breath when Bond drags down the briefs and pushes Q’s cheeks apart with his hands. Q’s breath leaves him in a shaky exhale when Bond applies his lips and his tongue to his entrance, stabbing inside with such intensity and force that Q’s body simply has to give in and allow him access.

Q slams down the toothbrush and takes himself in hand, stroking without any finesse or thought as Bond sucks and fucks him with his tongue. The stubble on Bond’s cheeks and upper lip drags and bristles against the impossible smoothness of Q’s arse, and were he not so strung up and close to coming, so soon, it’s _amazing_ , he’d be giggling and struggling to get away. Not so much now, as he’s all but pushing his arse against Bond’s face, begging without voice, and his back arches and his body almost topples forward when he comes, and the tops of his thighs will sport lovely twin bruises for the rest of the week.

"In the sink, really," Q says, still a bit irritably. "You planned this."

"I know you hate clean up." Very unrepentant, and growly, and the goose bumps are back in full force, just like that.

"I could always make you lick it off," Q says, and shivers all the way down to his toes when Bond stands up and plasters his body against Q’s now naked back, glorious muscle against lean and thin, letting him feel his erection pressed against his arse.

"Bed, now, Quartermaster," Bond suggests, and Q realises he must shed whatever remains of his bad mood sooner than he thought because really, even he cannot pretend to sulk when he has Bond’s cock all the way inside him, arranging his insides anew, his knees pressed to his chest, and Bond’s mouth on his, bruising his lips.

"And then you'll make me tea," he orders imperiously and then chases his double oh to the bedroom, kicking his briefs to the side when he goes, and tackles Bond down to the mattress.


End file.
